


imagine me and you (i do)

by pinkgrapefruit



Series: e l e v e n [1]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: M/M, Season 11, happy together - the turtles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 22:03:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18214232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkgrapefruit/pseuds/pinkgrapefruit
Summary: But for now, there were lingering looks across a crowded room, holding them together.(or, episode one brings new opportunities)





	imagine me and you (i do)

**Author's Note:**

> All work is my own. Despite being based on real people, what I write is entirely fictitious - be kind.
> 
> (I've rewatched episode one so many times now I think I could recite it)

_ ‘I’m sorry Y'all are missing this in action because it’s good’ _

 

It’s times like this when he can truly feel the deja vu. Walking into the werkroom again felt too different, he was more confident this time around, more assertive. He didn't really fear what was to come, more like fear repeating his mistakes again, but even that seemed like small potatoes. If he could spin 30 seconds of fame into a year imagine what he could do with a full minute. Somehow though, standing in a corner watching 13 different queens transform into (not bad looking) men, it was closer to the original experience than he had bothered to consider. He once again felt like a bobbing cork, out of his depth but just about floating in a wave of beautiful people. 

 

Having been able to watch all of the girls walk in, he’d already scoped them out to a fair extent. He knew Scarlett would look like a twink and was convinced that Ariels’ makeup was not just makeup but maybe some extensive injections. He’d seen Plastique online and Shuga in a gig somewhere, sometime a while ago, but Brooke; he confused him. The way he painted his angles so softly threw him when the Canadian stepped back away from his mirror. His real jaw was defined and his high cheekbones could cut someone, given the chance. By all means, a very handsome man.

 

He locked eyes with the blonde for a second as he slowly took off one of two quite painful thigh high boots. Brooke was stood calmly, sans face, with his naturally tousled hair and an open khaki shirt that was killing the shorter man. He had to force himself to look away.

 

Turning back to his own mirror (though keeping Brooke firmly in his eye-line through the reflection) he made quick work of removing his own face. The face it'self didn't seem too difficult to manage and he threw on a snapback to cover his wig hair but the chest glitter was a whole different story. On the plus side, it gave him a perfect excuse to stand in some very skimpy shorts and his favourite hat, shirtless and staring directly at Brooke. You win some, you lose some.

  
  


_ ‘Yeah I think Vanjie’s trade, I think she's very handsome’ _

 

Walking in had been the most terrifying thing he’d done since Miss Continental. It wasn't even necessarily the prospect of the cameras or even the prestige of the show, It was just the pure dread of the competition.

 

Despite his fear, he was so comfortable in his outfit. It felt right to look so Canadian having spent 10 years trying to get the correct visa to be able to compete. He knew the glitter shone just right, the hat was perfect and the hair, his usual sleek blonde bob. They could come for everything he was but they couldn't fault his looks. He could only hope the confidence he had in his outfit had carried through into how he walked in. The tiny Canada flag had been a last minute find but effective and the national anthem had only served to highlight his entrance as something fantastic. He hoped.

 

Seeing Nina West stood at that table in a bright yellow coat had been the true blessing though. Seeing a familiar face in a sea of beautifully painted men in wigs was his saving grace. The familiarity brought him out of his shell a bit, allowed the queens to see his personality, something he tended to keep more hidden when in a room full of other queens who he didn't know (or care for yet). But behind the hoard of strong personalities and tall drinks of water stood a tiny Puerto Rican in red that he immediately set his eyes on. He recognised the man, of course - who wouldn't? 

 

So he made it his mission, get his attention. He knew he looked good both in and out of drag. Naturally blessed with solid bone structure and years of professional ballet training giving him toned musculature that most men would kill for. He didn't doubt Vanessa would notice.

 

His first mission was to get the unusually tight outfit off and free his tuck, a surprisingly quick job - purely due to how uncomfortable he was in it after that photo shoot. Once the outfit was gone, and he’d changed into some respectable cotton shirts and an open green khaki shirt, the wig went too. He would later deny all knowledge but at the time he spent a somewhat ridiculous amount of time fixing his hair to look soft and tousled. The curly look usually worked for him with the gays and he hoped that it would have the same effect on him. (The Puerto Rican would admit easily, some weeks on, that that hairstyle was his favourite).

 

The final step in his transformation was to wipe off all of the makeup from his face, giving him back his jawline. Fresh-faced, he stepped back from his mirror and looked over to where he was trying his hardest to remove her boots. It took all he had not to laugh or lend a hand as he serenely watched on. They made eye contact. Vanessa broke it first.

 

**********

 

They would repeat this later. When he was removing yet another short blonde wig and Vanessa’s was darker. When he had to spend another ten minutes removing his chest glitter and Brooke was coated in lube from the latex catsuit that he still couldn't quite realise he’d pulled off. When he was high off a win and when the shorter man was just high off still being there. 

 

In fact, they'd repeat this at every opportunity. Sometimes one was happy and one was sad but they were both wearing orange. Others, the blonde would be upset but he’d be there to comfort him with soft touches and unacknowledged looks and a level of hidden love that would go on to be not so hidden just a week later, but it was okay. Eventually, the brunette would be trying to take off another goddamn thigh high ( _ ‘why the hell do you wear them babe when you can't get them off?’ ‘because they make me look fucking good’ _ ) and he’d help. 

 

That would all come. But for now, there were lingering looks across a crowded room, holding them together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! any feedback/comment is welcome x  
> come harass me over on tumblr @pink-grapefruit-cafe
> 
> (also I take requests)


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